Literati 2022
Literati [li-tə-ˈrä-tē] NOUN 1. people who are interested in literature or the arts Front Cover Art: Paper Ocean by Layla DaCosta
Meet the staff of Literati Layla DaCosta “Weird is the new cool” Emilia Doncov -Layla DaCosta Karen Acrish “The way I see it, if you want a rainbow, you Isabella Ding gotta put up with the rain.” -Dolly Parton \"A problem is a chance to do your best.\" -Duke Ellington “[insert inspirational quote here]” Iris Ma “Literature is the immortality of speech.” -August Wilhelm von Schlegel Ashley Shapiro “They laugh at me because I am different, I laugh at them because they are the same” -Kurt Cobain Chloe Annicharico \"Big journeys begin with small steps\" -Anonymous Peyton Clinton “It always seems impossible until it's done” -Nelson Mandela Nevaeh Villaman “Success is not final; Failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts.\" -Winston Churchill
Table of contents Twilight Cries..........................................................Isabella Ding Snowman................................................................Leah Tavares Untitled Art...............................................................Johnny Cao Jellyfish.................................................................Layla Dacosta Jellyfish photographs.......................................................Iris Ma Baby Brother.....................................................Nevaeh Villaman Untitled Art...............................................................Johnny Cao Nighthunter............................................................Isabella Ding NY Times Finalist: My Hit......................................Luke Calabrese NY Times Finalist: Colors...........................................Tessa Brady Strawberries Artwork.............................................Emilia Doncov Fallen Angel............................................................Isabella Ding Chloe's Cat Rosie Artwork.......................................Emilia Doncov The Truth Is.................................Ashley Shapiro & Emilia Doncov The Game ...............................................................Isabella Ding We Are The Survivors....................................................Zoe Lang Honey Artwork.......................................................Emilia Doncov Phoenix...................................................................Isabella Ding Nighttime..........................................................Nevaeh Villaman Living Colors...........................................................Isabella Ding Wintertime With Olaf Artwork................................Emilia Doncov The Pancake Story.....................................................Byron Stock Of Love and Shadows...............................................Isabella Ding Dear Journal..........................................................Emilia Doncov The Sky is Blue...................................................Nevaeh Villaman Surprise!.........................................................Chloe Annicharico Friends Artwork.....................................................Emilia Doncov December...............................................................Leah Tavares Nested in Nature Photographs..........................................Iris Ma February Writing Contest April Writing Contest A year in 6th Grade With Peyton...........................Peyton Clinton Special thank you to our contributing photographer: Iris Ma
TWILIGHT CRIES by Isabella Ding A shrill cry echoed in the mist A heart clenched tight as a fist A river of salted, red tears A wound born of bloody fears A hand desperate for touch A smile too delicate and rough A note filled with pain and terror A goodbye that left no room for error A love never meant to last A lover forever lost in the past Photograph by Iris Ma
Snowman by Leah Tavares I start my snowman with the lower part I build it up, but then it falls apart I keep at it all day I see the trees begin to sway I lose track of time as I build my snowman’s design My hands start to ache as I form its shape Even though its cold, I'm still wide awake The finishing touches come with his hat, and I take a step back I have longed to finish my work as I look back and know what it's worth Artwork by Johnny Cao
Jellyfish by Layla DaCosta I don’t know why. I don’t just like jellyfish. I LOVE jellyfish. It makes no sense. Just like worms, How are they cute when they don’t have faces? They just satisfy me I guess. They have no hearts Or brains Or lungs Or anything. They are translucent skin with spaghetti thingies They are faceless creatures. So so weird. I like weird. I think they’re majestic. So please don’t ask why I am so obsessed with jellyfish. Art by Layla DaCosta
̴ Photographs by Iris Ma ̴
Baby Brother A Memoir by Nevaeh Villaman I just see his beautiful baby things! But I never get brown eyes opening and jealous because I’m not the closing. His tiny little fingers only child anymore. I actually and hands. His skin is still wanted a sibling on my Dad’s peeling off since he just came side so that I wasn’t the only out of the hospital. His eyes child. being so big and him being so light, as light as a feather. I When I hold him I feel just thought to myself, is he like I’m carrying a bag of rice always going to be this quiet? at the same time. He has He didn't even make a sound. gotten so much heavier! Every But let's find out if he’s still time that I hold him my arm the same quiet, small, and light either gets sore or falls asleep. baby Zaid I used to know… He is just so heavy! Zaid is not that same Sometimes I help give Zaid as he was one year ago. him a bath. His shampoo He is much louder and it smells so good that I just want definitely sounds like there is a to smell it ALL DAY! baby in the house now. He is Sometimes I even use his always screaming and jumping. lotion because of how good it He gets hurt all the time but smells. I just love the smell of a he keeps jumping! Argh, just baby.
I like to feel his hair When I had my baby because of how soft it is. His brother I learned how to be a face feels like a box of really big sister, and how it really is soft puppies or kittens. to take care of a child. A baby Sometimes I get jealous of his especially. Before I had my hair. Then I got some baby hair baby brother, I used to take oil and put a little on his hair. care of my cousin's two little I slick it down with a brush. girls. Which are three years apart. When I babysat them, it My brother's eyes got actually showed me how to smaller now that he is one. take care of kids. But now my Before his eyes were like two brother gives me guidance to big orbs. But now they’re not. take care of my little brother. His hands are much bigger but his fingernails are still so little. Zaid has impacted me His little tiny feet have grown as well. Impacted me by into monsters in baby sizes. His showing me how to take on the quietness has gone away and role of being a big sister. How the loud baby everyone knows to take care of a baby and love now has arrived. It's like he him with all my heart. I can’t was just hiding him in his little wait until he grows up and I cage as we waited for him to will be able to take him to the grow up. The baby that used to park and go everywhere. Maybe be as light as some feathers even all over the world as a became as big as our puppy and family with two very loving Zaid now rides him like a siblings. horse.
Artwork by Johnny Cao
Nighthunter by Isabella Ding Slim daggers weight down my waist Sharp points drawing blood “Nothing is left so I should leave nothing” A mantra born from both hate and love Below me, an innocent sleeps on Unaware of the terror that never lies dormant in the night A flick of a knife quiets the already calm breathing It’s amusing how these people die unable to fight Quiet chuckling rumbles from low in my throat I leap to the next one, weapons at the ready I have a new hypothesis: maybe I really am mad But does that truly matter when my hand is steady? Over the shadows that coat the rooftop like a fresh coat of tar A silhouette darts through my imagination, hidden away My glinting blade falls upon another Skill trumps chance, leaving a puddle of blood before the night’s day Golden crown of the sun leaks bright rays of light into the still-dark sky I, the Nighthunter, prepare to leave, to hide under my many disguises Yet before I turn around to flee, a whistle blows low A silver arrow pierces my skin; I fall as the sun rises Photograph by Iris Ma
My Hit by Luke Calabrese New York Times 2021 Personal Narrative Contest Round Four Finalist “You ready?” my father asked as we headed up to the field. “Yes, today is the day. I can feel it.” “Are you sure it’s going to be today? You haven’t gotten a hit all season.” “I know, but it has to be today. It’s the last game of the season.” I was so embarrassed. Every other player except for me on the team had a hit. “Even if you don’t get a hit, you know we’re still proud of you, right?” “Yeah, I know, Dad.” I needed to get a hit today because I wanted to be proud of myself, and I knew all of my practice and hard work was going to pay off. As I watched my teammates warm-up, I knew I wasn’t going to disappoint them like I had in the past. During the season, I made mistakes that caused my team to struggle. I struck out with people on base, made fielding errors, and was thrown out. It felt like my glove and my bat were making fun of me. When I wasn’t doing that, I sat on the bench. I wanted to be successful for my teammates, and I felt like I held them back. After many innings of hard play, we still were losing by two runs in the last inning. That was when my coach finally gave me an opportunity. To motivate our team, my coach said, “We can do this. Luke, start us off.” While I was preparing for my at-bat, I heard the opposing coach say, “This guy is weak. Easy out.”
Colors by Tessa Brady New York Times 2021 Personal Narrative Contest Round Four Finalist Bright colors have always been my favorite. Splashes of blues, greens, and reds. Fiery explosions of anger. Calm lakes with brilliant sunsets. Paintings with preserved emotions trapped between paper and paint. I look at the paper in front of me, white, plain, and begging me to tell a story. Squirting paint onto the pallet, I dip my brush in. The jarring events of the morning bang around in my head, anxious to escape onto paper. Mom said that dad most likely has a cold, it’ll be ok. I try to calm down, but my heart still hammers. I try to focus on the TV instead, to distract myself. My dad gets up from his chair with a sigh. He closes his computer, “My COVID test came back positive, so I’m going to go upstairs. You guys can keep watching TV”. My heartbeat pounds loudly in my head, and all I can hear is thump thump thump. No. No. No. I keep repeating the word in my head, synchronized with my heart. My brain tells me to go, to get away from everyone. I can barely comprehend what happened. A wave of emotions hits me, pushing me down, making it hard to breathe and resurface. So many emotions, anger, fear, pain, and darkness creeping through me. I run upstairs, closing the door to my room, trying to keep out the fear. Curled up on my bed, my head throbbing, my heart pounding, I can’t tell if I’m shaking from fear or sobbing. My chest aches and my whole body hurts. The fear inside of me grows stronger and stronger. I can’t breathe. Reminding myself to take a breath, I breathe in, out, in, out. It’s harder than it should be. My chest is squeezing into a tight ball, and the whole world looks blurry
Colors continued... and distorted through my eyes overflowing with tears. I’ve never been this scared before. I don’t want to get COVID. People have died from COVID. Hundreds and hundreds of people with families. Will my dad die? My mind flashed through arguments I’d had with my dad, debates over the most random things. I felt guilty for having them. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t. Another wave of tears came, my bed trembling as I sobbed. Curled in a ball on my bed, I cried and shook with fear. A few minutes later, I had no more tears left to cry. I sat up shakily, my hands still trembling and my heart still pounding. It was like the calm after the storm. When all the damage that could be done already has been. I gazed around my room. My plants are sitting on the windowsill, soaking up the sunlight, the delicate leaves of my spider plant drooping over the side, so long they almost touched the floor. My stuffed animals are sitting at the end of my bed and I hug them. Their soft fur dries up the tears still left on my face. I see my painting supplies sitting on my desk. They almost seemed to be calling me over. With a brush in my hand, I sit down and slowly let my emotions come back to me. I paint fiery flowers, an ocean of tears, and my favorite place, peaceful, but with dark gray clouds hanging over, waiting to let their rain and lightning strike anything that was standing too tall. I paint bright bursts of color and emotion, trapped in the paper, anger, fear, and worry. I still feel them, but I can see them now, reflected in my paintings.
Strawberries Artwork In Colored Pencil by Emilia Doncov
Fallen Angel (Non est ad astra mollis e terris via) Isabella Ding The milky white orb hung in the depths of the deep, dark oblivion. With a graceful leap, it bounded through the forests and rested gently in a rippling bow. His fingers, long, slender, and as pale as the ones in eternal rest, caressed the smooth edges of her respect. In his silky and lilting voice, he whispered, “Those who follow the White Rose wander down the path of Hacate,” raising his hand to the sky. “And, said Seneca, ‘Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.’” He turned away from the blood-red clouds. Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. **************** She rose from the clouds of Chaos, as Darkness. There was no one to embrace her in the oblivion. A falling angel, a snowflake of ice latticework, alone in his scintillating glory. He overcame the darkness and again she rose from her new identity, pure and misty silver, fated to forever guard the Darkness with her gentle luminosity, fated to live with the stars. When he beckoned her down she followed her fallen angel yet again. With grace, she fell before him, faithful to the end. Yet with his final words, her trust and her life bled, bled a deep red into the misty silver, into the darkening clouds, into the once-elegant sky, and the White Rose truly fell, as she had before, into the depths of Chaos, so far, so far once again, from the stars. And she sank down, away from the fallen angel that betrayed her, because as he said, “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.” She had gone too far down the path of Hecate. There is no easy way from the earth to the stars. ****************
They, the students, watched the sky bleed an ugly red, illuminating upon the brick buildings of their school. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered, but they were not heartless. As the velvet blanket was dyed with the heavy ink droplets, the corruption made clear by the descent of the now blood-covered moon, the students, once blessed with the silverlight in the moonlit clearings of the forest, once friends and once powerful, were dragged down to Chaos, to the oblivion. The power of Hecate rose from Chaos, interlaced with silverlight, and smothered the stars in the overwhelming anger and spite that fueled it. The dark and light, wound together, twisted roughly across the sky, trying to find their place among the stars, among the purest of all. And then he came once again. The one of the unknown. With a final hidden flourish of his curled hand, the Hecatic dark silverlight danced away in a cruel waltz, back to Chaos, back to oblivion. It was only then that the sky wrote in starry loops, “Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.” And the students knew. Knew their meaning and their consequences. Because a fallen angel wouldn’t let anyone go. They were one and the same. Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. There is no easy way from the earth to the stars. **************** The sky, earth, and stars. All stained red with the blood of the White Rose, of Hecate, of innocents. But none from the fallen angel. Only then, when the land itself was quiet in grief and trepidation, did he tear off his gray wings of his descent. Only then, could he rise to his spot in the sky. His wings, pure and white, untainted by the cold-heartedness of the stained world before him. With a final calculating glance, he rose to the stars. To his place, in the stars. Because “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.” He whispered to the destroyed world once more, for the final time. He turned away from the crumbling universe. Pulvis et umbra sumus. We are but dust and shadows.
Chloe's Cat Rosie Artwork In Colored Pencil by Emilia Doncov
The Truth Is... by Ashley Shapiro The truth is dogs are better than cats The truth is school is better than Hebrew School The truth is pens are better than pencils The truth is milk chocolate is better than dark chocolate The truth is birthdays are better than New Years The truth is birthdays are better than Christmas The truth is the tooth fairy is fake The truth is Santa is not real The truth is not all flannel pants are pajamas The truth is girls are cooler than boys ...The Truth Is by Emilia Doncov The truth is, my dog is the best dog ever! She is everything you can imagine in the best dog. She gives cuddles, she plays fetch, she looks like a golden retriever but doesn't shed! She also does sit, paw, other paw, down, roll, go inside, stay, go to your bed, and leave it! My dog also has the biggest smile. She also is very protective and cares for me and my family. This is why I think my dog is the best dog ever!
the game by isabella ding the grass was brown over the bridge the grass was green i knew this was reality because “the grass is always greener on the other side” my back was striped with the burdens of venomous pain over the bridge the children frolicked carelessly in their meadows i thought this was life because “no pain no gain” (they said it was for my own good) the midnight corpses drowning in rubied blood tightened their chokehold over the bridge the red liquid fused into fragrant roses i wondered if this was normal because i no longer found an excuse they pushed the barrel of danger against my forehead over the bridge no one saw i realized it was all fake checkmate i lost the game
We Are the Survivors: A Story of the Baby Trout in the Science Classroom by Zoe Lang We’re the last ones left. Several others followed our There used to be so many; our first mortality. They were few and far between, never occurring too world felt crowded and cramped closely together. Those ones with all of our companions. I’d didn’t affect us as heavily. estimate that our numbers started at about a hundred. Now, four For many weeks, all was well. months later, only about twenty of The ninety or so of us that were us are still alive. still alive were living happily, as free as we’d ever been. The first few days were Connections started forming. confusing, and blurry. All one Lives were being developed. hundred of us were stuck inside a diminutive room without any Then came three newcomers. doors. We were given rations, but I knew from my first glance at our anxiety at being trapped them that they had been through drowned out any hopes of a lot. All three looked thin, tired, contentness. and terrified. When most of us had reached That day, they told us their our breaking point, it happened. tale. They’d lived in a similar The walls were lifted- we now had place with about a hundred others a gargantuan space to explore. to start. Something along the line Yet with our newfound freedom had gone wrong, their fellows came grief. started dying at alarming rates. Within weeks, those three were The first loss shook us all to alive, and they were brought here the core. I’ll never forget it, how in hopes that they would live. that night we were one less than we were that morning. How it So this… this place where could have been any one of us, we’re being kept, I had thought, even me, and that we could all be it’s meant to keep us alive. That there- wherever there is- instead reassured me that everything of here. would go smoothly. To say the least, it didn’t.
Survivors continued... dozen or even three, died there. I didn’t know about the new arrivals I was resting near one of the until later. walls when a jet of icy cold blasted me. Feeling the same After that awful night, we were thing, several others near me moved yet again into a far smaller took off for the opposite side. The enclosure. The two remaining cold followed insistently, pushing newcomers (one was lost in the the rest of us there as well. We high-walled space) recognized it lost two or three more that night, as their old home. Aside from its the first fatalities in weeks. The less-than-satisfactory size, it had newcomers, to our immense a swath across the middle where relief, all survived. formidable winds barreled through anything that dared get in The next day, the chill had all their way. Those winds knocked but disappeared. Our us to the side almost every time environment was comfortable we tried to cross, so we didn’t at again; and more importantly, safe first. Soon, though, we figured out again. That didn’t stop everyone that sticking to one of the walls from being on edge as if was the preferred way to go. expecting to feel that same shot of ice. Nobody strayed near the But the casualties… It was far wall for the days that followed. awful to be a part of that, stand by as we could do nothing to help. The second calamity occurred I’d estimate that we lost another just two days after the first. I still twenty in our first two weeks. remember it like it was yesterday. More followed. Every day, we all whispered to ourselves, “I hope A small group was gaping, I’m not next.” horrified, at a large fault that had appeared in the ground. It wasn’t As of right now, there are right very wide or deep, but the jagged around twenty of us that have yet edge where it cut into the ground to pass on. I don’t know how it’s looked deadly sharp. us and not them. Some of them were true fighters, persisting until Hours later, we were they couldn’t. transferred to a much smaller place- maybe more like an This isn’t even the end of our enclosure- with impossibly high journey. walls. So many of us, maybe two
Honey Artwork In Colored Pencil by Emilia Doncov
phoenix a sinful drug that i no by Isabella Ding longer possess maybe you my singed feathers have never felt once proud flame the deep-rooted sting and ache muffled by the or never saw scraping searing chains the curl of withered ash where souls have torn away residing in from a hatred too my dulling gray iris strong from within like a phoenix neglected your powdered gold from an endless cycle filigree love of rebirth too real to be true searching for an escape dissolved away the mask you wore maybe the edge of glass dullened by never were you shimmering artificial sweetened words jewel to my whispered passionate fire in my ear as never were you a balm and your delicately ornate knife crown of twisted deeper glorious love instead a nothingness golden eyes and a gentle touch my shriveled chest like king midas holds a knife not of gold much too hungry but of stale pyrite for the nectar of the gods and no longer will i fly to the sun burned down smoke spiraling towards crimes of greed tear your ankles the heavens into the chasm of darkness please don’t forcing cries of repentance hurt me anymore for the abuse of helio’s for an empty shell beloved phoenix i am nothing shadows locked yet you return in a final embrace too hooked on
Nighttime by Nevaeh Villaman All I could see are the clouds The stars The moon It was dark outside and chilly I was with my mom and Sister We were having a girls day We went to see the stars The stars were beautiful But then we went home Had some hot chocolate with marshmallows And we watched a movie As a family Photograph by Iris Ma
Living colors. by Isabella Ding some days and other days i can see the world is left in black and white reality the strawberries fields without you we frolicked through last summer and the living colors fly away the little fox with the memories of you you fed rice to because left alone that isn't that little i am nothing anymore for once i felt the wild golden wheat the colors braided into crowns there with me placed upon our heads in the brisk but gentle wind the bright eucalyptus leaves in the rough stone underfoot of the tree in the backyard in the swaying aspen trees of our youth in the silence without your voice the humble bluebells along the trodden forest and the living colors came paths down with me treasuring our forever love because nothing was left some days i can see the except for you and me rainbow of you and your living colors your vivacy lies in that gave me life the memory of your colors dancing in our childhood
Wintertime With Olaf Artwork In Colored Pencil by Emilia Doncov
The Pancake: Inspired by Carlos by Byron Stock Just a heads up. Nothing in this passion project is true. Except for pancakes! Pancakes: If you did not know you can eat pancakes. They are mostly topped with pizza and guacamole. Pancakes are edible for only breakfast or else you will just eat them at the wrong time and break the pancake rule. Your pancake will look sad if you do not eat it. Food: Food is yummy, especially pancakes. There are many different kinds of pancakes like soup pancakes. Here is the recipe for them: you grind up pancakes and there you have it, soup pancakes True Story: It was the last day until the world blew up. So, I did what anybody would do, went to a pancake store and bought 1,000 pancakes. My mom said it was dumb to not visit her, but I knew deep down it was the right choice. I ate all the pancakes and died happily. Fact: Once in the 30 millionth century there was a guy. He found chocolate chips and he found flour. He combined them all together and got………Chocolate Pancakes!
True Story: Back in the 1980’s I found a half-eaten pancake that got stepped on. So, I did what anyone would do... eat it. One day later I got arrested for stealing someone's pancake, but it was worth it! The Pancake Oath: Pancakes are yummy Pancakes are good Pancakes are edible Pancakes are Pancakes Pancakes are me pancakes are you pancakes are math Pancakes are reading Pancakes are tasty Pancakes are everything Pancakes Are better than waffles! Any Questions? Photograph by Iris Ma
Of Love and Shadows by Isabella Ding With one large unblinking eye, he stared at me. I stared back at him. ***** The roiling waves of darkness, seemed comforting in his presence. The shadows danced around me, a waltz I couldn’t keep up with. They curled around me in sympathy, the dazzling light, my one last glimpse. The last of the world I was leaving behind, marked by the final eclipse. And he was still unwavering, an immortal fate, set in stone. My eternal lover of darkness, soothed by blood and bone. He drew me back down to the shadows, where I was no longer all alone. I bid farewell to the light last night, and then, I returned home. Photograph by Iris Ma
Dear Journal Based on the short story Eleven by Sandra Cisneros by Emilia Doncov Dear Journal, Today definitely was not the best birthday. Today I turned eleven, but I don’t feel eleven. Today feels just like yesterday. My age is only a one-day difference from when I was ten yesterday. I wouldn't be eleven today if I didn't ever turn ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. I sure sometimes don’t act eleven either. Sometimes I will cry like I'm three, or scream like I'm seven. My younger years are still a part of me and I learn from these years stacked all up onto each other like big scoops of ice cream on one another. To me, I think that these years help me have more experience and learn more life lessons. Today, I wish I was older. I wish I could have been one hundred and two. That way I would have more authority and experience to stick up for myself to Mrs. Price. But I didn’t have that courage or strength, because I am only eleven. When Mrs.Price stood up to the class and asked who this old, beat up, and worn out sweater belonged to, Sylvia Saldivar said she thinks it belongs to me! I just have no idea why she would say this, why me? Of course, Mrs. Price believes her. My body started to fill up with nervousness and
Journal continued... embarrassment. It was like I was three again. My big eleven year old voice was gone. I started to mutter and I tried to speak up. But Mrs. Price's authority took over my voice. It’s not mine. No, it’s not. I know that, but Mrs. Price has moved on. I try remembering I’m eleven today, but then, my mind tracks right back to the sweater as soon as I look at it. I want it out of my sight, forever. Mrs. Price doesn't want to put up with me anymore. She forced me to put on the sweater. The red ugly sweater was smelly and gross. As I put it on; I wish I wasn't eleven, as my arm goes through the sleeve, my arm starts to itch. The stench of cottage cheese runs up my nose and makes me want to gag. Then, my true age starts to show. All of a sudden, I start crying like I am four in front of everyone. Right before lunch, that stupid Phyllis Lopez says that the sweater is hers. My face became red just like a tomato. I quickly snatch the sweater off of my body and hand it to her. Worst of all, Mrs.Price didn’t even care. She did not take any ownership. My birthday feels ruined. I can’t be eleven anymore. No; not anymore. I want to be as far as possible from this experience. This experience taught me that often in life, it doesn't matter how old you are, sometimes you have to use your voice to advocate for yourself.
The Sky is Blue by Nevaeh Villaman The sky is Blue just like the game The sky is Blue so God loves you The sky is Blue just like pool water I love the Blue pool The sky is Blue just like your shoes The sky is Blue just like my room The sky is Blue just like your room I see the color blue everywhere How about you? Photograph by Iris Ma
Surprise! by Chloe Annicharico One typical morning, my sister, mother and I went to the supermarket and then to a parking lot so my sister could practice driving. While we were there, my grandmother called. \"I am just letting you know that I am going to Gail's house to see Abby. I will be there in an hour.\" \"But Abby won't be home until tomorrow.\" my mother responded. I was confused and my heart was beating so fast. Abby is my older cousin, but she is like a sister to me. She lives right down the street from me. She is my soul mate. I thought to myself \"What if Abby really is home\" Did my grandmother know something I did not know? I was feeling anxious and wanted to know if Abby really had returned from college today. During this time, my mom had asked me to take the dogs out for a walk, so I did. I was outside with them for only a minute when the rest of my family ran outside and I was so confused. Then at that moment, I saw a car. \"That kinda looks like Abby's car.\" I thought to myself. \"Wait, it is!\" Next, Abby comes out of the car, running up to me to give me a big hug! I said, \"I thought you were coming home tomorrow?\" \"I wanted to surprise you!\" Abby responded. She was home and I was so happy.
Friends Artwork In Colored Pencil by Emilia Doncov
December by Leah Tavares Winter comes in quiet A cool drop of icy air I breathe it in I've been waiting all year Month 12 is here like a flash of light and then darkness settles I take it all in The end of the year Photograph by Iris Ma
February Writing Contest Write or illustrate from the perspective of a kitchen item \"Take a look around your kitchen. Tools are there, but many people would view them as inanimate and non-sentient objects whose only purpose is to assist in everyday cooking that can feed their human hosts. If your kitchen utensils, pots, pans, and knives were all sentient beings that could feel emotion and pain, how would everything change?\" -Iris Ma
by Sam Lee I hear the most horrible sound that every spoon like me despises. The sound of footsteps stomp down the stairs and fills the air. All of us spoons try to hide but alas, none of us can move. “Worth a shot,” I grumble. Then I see the horrible beast. This beast stands at two feet tall, dark-haired, and with those terrifying eyes that make you want to pull your own eyes out. The giant girl reaches out for me and I scream so loud so the other spoons in the drawer can hear me. I close my eyes and clench my feet (yes, you heard that right). Awaiting the horror before me, I start to sweat. I had never been in a germ-infested, bacteria-ridden mouth before. She looks straight at me, her eyes penetrating my outer layer of metal. I start to tremble. “Here comes the abuse!” I exclaim. Nothing happened. I open my eyes slowly and glance over to the right. What I saw made me want to jump with joy. The hairy monster snatched up the fork instead of me. “It’s a miracle!” I exclaim. All the forks shoot angry looks at me. I sunk back down. “I-I m-mean,” I stuttered. I gulped down my fear. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as sad as possible. I doubt the forks believed me for a second, but they left me alone. I slowly let out the breath I had been holding all this time. “I survived!” I shouted to the other spoons. Everyone cheers and we all celebrate by playing dead so another giant doesn’t take us. As it turns out, I wasn’t as lucky as I thought. A minute after the celebration, another giant four times the size of the first one grabbed me. I gasped for air while the supergiant choked me. I went inside the germ-infested, bacteria-filled mouth and the experience changed me forever. “At least I survived,” I thought, as I was put into something even more dangerous than a giant's mouth. I wasn’t sure if I would make it out alive. They call the experience ARMAGEDDON. None have come back to share their story from the machine that cannot be named. The DISHWASHER.
by Anna Rushton Please, see I’m here. Don't you see I’m here? I mean, you use me every day. I taste the bittersweet goodness of lemonade. You stir me round and round. Don't you notice me? I’m right here. I clink against the pure glass cups. Don't you notice me? I'm scraped on pots and pans, being all scratched up. Appreciation? I think not. My once beautiful printed pattern on my pure metal handle is now gone. I must say, it's not all bad. My tongue tickles when you stir me in a metal pot filled with delicious foods. But most of it is quite un-pleasing. I have seen the inside of your mouth-WHEW! Can’t you brush and floss once in a while?! You put me in ice cream, not even asking if I'm getting a brain freeze, you just keep on scooping. Don't you think I deserve a thank you? Why? Why Why Why? I want to see the world. There are more than ten of me in the drawer, but you only choose to use me. It's not fair! I want to be more than just an item you use to eat. My life will soon come to a dreadful, dull end, and yet you don't notice. I will soon be thrown out and replaced! And yet, I am not thanked. You have failed me. I was once beautiful, and now I am displeasing and plain. Notice me, won’t you? I am a spoon and deserve to be noticed.
by Mason Monticelli I start my day at six o’clock in the morning, even on weekends. The humans use me for breakfast lunch and dinner, I never get a rest. The day starts with me being pulled out of the kitchen drawer by a human. I hear the preparations and the sizzling in the pan on the stove and I know what comes next. She’s going to reach for me and dip my silicone-tipped head into the hot bacon grease. I brace myself, but I can't actually feel my head on the hot oil. The human uses me to flip the bacon a few times, slamming me down on the counter in between each flip. I’m now done with the first meal of the day. She turns on the sink and showers me with water, washing off all of the bacon grease and she puts me back into the kitchen cabinet. Lunch is another story. The smaller humans call out to their leader (I think) “We want chicken nuggets!'' Next thing I know, I'm being clamped, un-clamped, slammed on the table and plunged into a hot pan. Alright, last meal of the day. Today the small humans demanded that they eat hamburgers. I hear the sizzle again, but today the smaller human is helping the larger human with cooking. Now, I’m not only used to flip burgers but also as a microphone as they sing and dance around the kitchen. At last, my work for the day is done. The large human tucks me into the top rack of the dishwasher and puts me to my soapy slumber for the night.
by Max Berstein Ugh. It's like every hour people do an autopsy on me. They open me and remove my internal organs: milk, yogurt, cheese, pesto, leftovers. I don't know what my organs are used for, BUT...Sometimes these people come back and refill me with new organs. You know what!? I'm done being A Refrigerator and want to be something like my pal over there, \"Toaster!\" He is so cool because he makes stuff warm. I make stuff cold and anyway who wants cold organs? Well, actually, I do become a toaster when the power goes out so never mind. I've decided I like being a very, very cold fridge. “Fridge, are you done talking to air? I'm bored and might toast you.” “Please don't.” by Leah Tavares I am sick of people throwing weird powder and RAW eggs into me. The treatment I get needs to stop. I am abused every day because of these annoying humans. I can’t stand people taking a spoon and stirring me. I have a whole library of scratches on my sides. The mixing bowl abuse needs to stop. We need to stand up on our bowl legs and say what is right. I will start a petition to get rid of this abuse. When this petition is done there will be NO mixing bowls in your house. If there is any size or color mixing bowl in your house CAREFULLY put it outside, and let them roam freely on the street. SAVE THE MIXING BOWLS!!!!
by Iris Ma The Spoon: During the night, there is no sound. There are no sounds of the clinking of my brethren as they are moved by human hands. There are a few times when there is light, but it is always dark and dry no matter what is inside of our little drawer. Occasionally we are placed into the dark lands of that… creature. In that creature hot water is blasted at us and how much it burns! The feeling of the scorching heat against metal and porcelain, a burning hurricane of water sustained inside of a metal beast. No experience could be worse. Alas, soup is another experience, so much better than that water beast or that grimy little baby. The soup does not burn like the beast of water, perhaps comparable to humans sitting in tubs, letting the warmth of the water soak through…. by Thea Bennett People put me on when they're about to bake something. Usually, there's always some cheesy, punny, saying on the front of it like, “hello, is it me you're cooking for?” or something ridiculous like that that young people just don't understand. Also, people wear me in movies where they just cover me in flour, sugar, or any type of baking ingredient just to make it look like they were actually baking. But in reality, you rarely spill on me. Guests will always compliment me by saying, “Omg that is so cute!”, or “Where did you get that apron from? Super adorbs.” Of course, from all these compliments, I naturally have so much self-confidence. Put me on, take me off, but often I just hang there on the hook in the kitchen waiting.
April Writing Contest Write a poem for National Poetry Month
Extraterrestrial by Harrison Lorenz It was midnight, dark and dreary. The waxing moon dominated the cloudy battlefield above. Not one rampant soul roving the menacing landscape. It all was set prior to a dilemma in the medium of an ever-dreary September. As the air was filled with the sound of rain pounding the glass. I pondered. Pondered throughout the night. Pondered about my plight. And performed a show of restless cowardice. Subsequently, my pondrage soon subsided. As I perched upon my chair, proclaiming my defeat. Despite my mind being weak and weary, I came to the resolution, to perform a procedure that I had performed many many times before. I made off from my chair and scanned the walls, to find a novel to relieve me of my situation. I moved like a snake throughout the cluttered floor. When abruptly outside, in the dead of night HOOOOOOOOO! A screech awoke the world from its slumber. It sounded again, and again, and again. It was terribly loud, and it was a bone-chilling sound. I hectically scurried away from my chamber window. Past my chamber door, under the covers, secluded by the pillows. Safe from my unknown oppressor.
After analyzing the present predicament, after coming to my senses, I pronounced. “What is this beast that disturbs my study” And on that such occasion in the dead of night, I sprung from the covers, and slowly I crept to my chamber window. And what I saw was unaccountable. Eyes that looked like glowing amber. Eyes that burned like an untamed wildfire. Floating in an abyss of blackness, only broken by the faint tapping of rain against the glass. It was unearthly. Its gaze was ambiguous I was confounded and was anxious to know, If it was a friend, Or a foe. Hastefully, I skipped across the cluttered floor. Arose the light bulbs from their short but sweet slumber. Soon the light adorned the walls. And what I saw standing outside my chamber window, was no more than… an owl. An owl, the feared king of the night. I stood in unsuppressed awe. I observed the razor blades that grew from his feet. The mighty wings that protrude from its shape. Its mighty eyes that gaze into your soul. However, nothing lasts too long. I burst out in brief laughter, despite the odd circumstances. As the product of being reassured of my security, and my sanity. I was relieved that the terror that haunted me, was not paranormal, nor extraterrestrial. I was relieved that the terror that had haunted me, had finally dissolved.
I soon trotted, unhindered, untroubled, with an unbroken stride, right up to my bedside. And as that night drew to a close My slumber was never to be disturbed, once more. I Used to Think Nobody Knows I Was Smart by Anonymous by Anonymous I never knew about love, I used to think I was smart, because nobody told me, I knew all the answers, What I was supposed to feel, All the facts, How I was supposed to act, All the information. What I was supposed to say. But then took a test, I failed, How I was supposed to think, question after question. What I was supposed to know. Nobody ever told me, This test wasn’t on knowledge, Nobody could tell me, It was on thinking. So I don’t know. Raising your hand first, knowing the facts, having information, does not define intellect. I used to think I was smart, but I know better now.
Light by Anonymous On the other side of the tunnel, darkness will fade away. The light has only flickered but not yet gone out. A cherry seed can start a forest, A match can start a fire, A ray of sun can clear the skies, Only if it tries. And those people who get up each morning, risking themselves for all. They are not so small. Spreading a small spark of hope, Is better than watching from your window. For a rose in the brush is still a rose. We have lost, we have thought, we have been in those darker clouds. Now all that is left is to keep on going, Separate but still together. For the lights haven’t gone out, on the other side of the tunnel. Photograph by Iris Ma
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